The Nature of Thyselves
by y.kaixia
Summary: 2018. Twitter. {International Act of Nytipwl *404* Hukln *404* Puydhbsegushjaqn *404*} An absurd explanation. A list of names. Alfred F. Jones. Francis Bonnefoy. Kiku Honda, Ludwig Beilschimdt. Feliciano Vargas. Arthur Kirkland. Ivan Bragi*error 406* "Men who lived too long. Knew too much. Harmed too many. Grew into civilisations. Figure of mysteries—*error 410 : API endpoint off*


**PROLOGUE**

**5th October 2018, 3.00 PM, United Nations Headquarters, New York, NY 10017, USA**

Arthur Kirkland wanted to stab a man in the gut had it not been a grave sin.

He was exhausted—drained from that disastrous, so-called 'meeting' in the United Nations Headquarters, Conference Room 1. It was a regular occurrence, and he found himself reluctantly content with it most times, but this one had been especially dreadful. Fifteen minutes, fifteen, for each representative, but nearly every representative just had to prolong that period to a solid thirty, if we're counting by average. Alfred's frequent, preposterous suggestions to climate change (which were questionably worked out in great detail), Feliciano's too-loud, even more ludicrous propositions to the same issue, the recurrent feud with Francis Bonnefoy, France's representative, who Arthur would slap without a doubt, if given the unlikely chance to, and the constant splitting sound, which had a dubious resemblance to the fracturing of a spine—coming from Ivan Braginsky's coat. Curious as he was, Arthur was nonetheless hesitant to question Mr. Braginsky about it, for the Russian was as unpredictable as the foul weather in the Scottish islands, and by that in a negative demeanor—he emitted a childish malice at times, and a smile that proved to be either sadistical or sincere, a matter that none other than himself and his dearest sisters mastered. That aside, was he ever so glad that the General Debate had been finished.

In times like these he would offer a silent prayer to Ludwig, the awfully strict German representative which gave Arthur a reason to believe that he hadn't wasted hours on such a chaotic debate. Well, it hadn't been completely catastrophic. All that matter about the new presidency and international healthcare issues were partially, if not, fully resolved, and one more thing—ah yes, Alfred was blabbering about inviting them over. Which at first glance, seemed pleasant enough, unless you're perfectly aware of the perils his 'fun gatherings' never fail to provide.

That being said, Arthur had other plans in mind, such as hitting the recently opened pub downtown; the one Mr. Bonnefoy had boasted about regarding the fine, biting taste of the pub's special Cranberry Gin. If there was anything that he trusted coming from Francis Bonnefoy, it would be his excellent taste for wine, gins, literally any alcohol. Arthur was a sucker for gins and whiskeys, especially scotch, even when it strongly reminded him of his absolute arsehole of a brother.

God, he really wanted booze right now.

With that, he was prompted to dial Mr. Jones' number, because obviously—it would be extremely rude to deject one's invitation without an explanation beforehand, despite how obnoxiously impudent that particular person might be. His employer should be here any minute, Arthur thought. Ringing up Alfred might have to wait.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, however you may see it), Arthur, in fact—did not have to worry about that. He could see from the corner of his eye someone running, closing in rapidly towards him from the opposite corridor. A few more seconds and he found none other than Mr. Jones himself, wrapping his arms around the Englishman, much to his dissent.

"Get off me," he hissed into Alfred's ear.

"Nope." Alfred felt a sharp jab to his arm. "Ok ok, maybe." And so he did. Alfred straightened up his suit, a rare sight, for he was seldom seen without his tan bomber jacket, the one with a block-font nine-nine plastered on the back. Well, the young lad still looked sloppy with his suit, Arthur remarked, his tie hanging down from the collar with an unfinished knot, gaps and creases visible on it. "This thing is tight as fuck."

"Haven't seen you in one for some time. Hold on- isn't this that suit?" That suit, the suit which he so fondly gave him as a coming-of-age gift during the 80s.

"Caught me, old man." Alfred hoisted his suitcase up the rails. "A lot of events and stuff lately, y'know. Had to wear this one."

"A bit taut, don't you think?" He patted Alfred's shoulders, an old habit that Arthur often did pre-ballroom parties, local wedding ceremonies (or anything involving the use of suits, really), that they'd attend together—sometimes along with Mattie (who despite being Alfred's somewhat-of-a-brother, was nothing like him, and by that in a positive way) back then before the revolution occurred. Good old times, Arthur thought. To why a suit could trigger such a vivid reminiscent of the past, he did not know exactly why.

"Uh, yeah? Anyways, you coming to—"

"No."

"I haven't even finished my sentence," Alfred mouthed exasperatedly. "Fine. Why?"

"Policy issues, they wanted to file an induction." Arthur lied quickly. He paused to sip at his take-out drink, warm peppermint tea. "Stanford wasn't too delighted about it."

Alfred gave a pout. "We just went through that long-ass meeting-

"Debate."

"Whatever." Alfred muttered. "Elevator?"

"About to. Before you assaulted me."

Alfred couldn't help but smirk.

**5th October 2018, 2.00 p.m., United Nations Headquarters, New York, NY 10017, USA**

Yao Wang was tired.

Okay, 'tired' was a major understatement.

"他妈的," he whined, mouthing something that Kiku Honda, who was leaning against the elevator wall next to him, thought of as an extremely indecent string of profanities. The man next to him was sickly pale, Kiku noted, gripping his suitcase in a similar manner as to someone who was clenching a ticking explosive.

"Are you ok?" he had said in Chinese.

"Do I look ok?" Yao Wang eyed the young man next to him. Japanese? Korean? In any case, the man was eyeing him intently, which was rather disturbing. His vision blurred, his body clearly on the aftereffects of sleep-deprivation. Was the man still staring at him? He muttered, "Young people these days, no privacy whatsoever."

On the other hand, Kiku was bewildered. He met Yao for almost every day, week, every Chinese New Year. How would he not recognise him? "Yao, it's me. Do you need coffee of something?"

Yao Wang blinked. Did he know him? "Who the hell are y—oh."

"I'll buy you some oolong tea after break, old man."

"What do you mean by old man?" Yao Wang grumbled. "But no shit, I really need caffeine."

"You always refuse coffee." Kiku muttered. "Care about yourself more once in a while."

Yao hummed uneasily. "Sure."

"I'll buy after meeting. We have delegates' lunch anyways." Kiku stepped closer to the opening doors.

"Well, I'll be excusing myself, Mr. Wang."

Yao smiled. "Your Chinese is still terrible."

Kiku nodded, walking past him to the corridor that followed. He gazed at the closing elevator doors, Kiku's postured back against him. Once, he was his son. Then enemy. Recently, a partner. Warmth, endearment, then resentment and loathing and grudges held, now forgotten. His vessel through several too many betrayals, and only a few decades before, his mind clouded with anguish and bitter thoughts of revenge. He had neither burden nor obligation to forgive. But he did. He did, for the umpteenth time. To every of his compatriots he knew exactly what thoughts would flood in when his mind shifted to them. Except his family. His family was a mess, an unending roulette of faith that inevitably ended in treachery, or something, perhaps much better.

His line of thought broke as he heard the chime—he had arrived at the third floor.

**5th October 2018, 3.30 PM, United Nations Headquarters, New York, NY 10017, USA**

They heard a 'ding', and the appeasing sight of the door finally opening, in no more than a few seconds, which was also a new personal record for the elevator wait on the UN Headquarters—as Alfred's intrusive thoughts had suggested.

Alfred shifted slightly to his right, wherever the numbers would be. "Ground floor?"

"Yep."

"Ok, wait a sec," Alfred lifted his head, oblivious to the gigantic figure looming over the plate, until two seconds after, at least. "Oh, he-oOLY SHIT—"

It was then that they became aware of another presence.

Arthur stood still, slightly shocked, but obviously it didn't come as a bombshell to him that Braginsky had managed to conceal himself in the lift for some um, considerable amount of time. Alfred, on the other hand, had harboured a detestable attitude to the Russian representative (from a few centuries back, no less), and at the time, was two feet away from fisting Mr. Braginsky. Alfred couldn't even count how many times he had felt that urge, and he hated it because damn, he can't punch a delegate. Ivan Braginsky, however, despite the unsolicited attention, was occupied with his own matters, or particularly, whether vodka could remove tarnish from discoloured silverware. And when he had arrived to the conclusion of 'yes, probably'; everyone on the lift was then aware of the awkward situation they were now trapped in for approximately ten seconds, considering the closing and opening of the doors, and an extra eight to thirteen if anyone also needed the lift on the second and third floors, as the Englishman had worked out in quick succession.

Well. Shouldn't have done that, Arthur thought.

"Oh. Pleasure to see you here, Arthur." Ivan tilted his head. "And Alfred."

"Mhm. Yeah, same to you, um, Ivan," Alfred nodded, then proceeded to revert his gaze to his phone. "Ok, so... the guys were like, planning to go to a pub-"

"They what-" Arthur certainly wasn't aware of this. After all, if he did, he'd be delighted.

Pubs were definitely in his top ten list of places to go when _crushed by stress_, whether it'd be the extravagant Royal Standard—or the measly Nutshell by St Edmunds, both in dear wonderful London, he found it a place to cure one of his fatigue, whether one preferred the rough, bitter scotch, or sweet, spicy liquor, it was all the more provided. Though so, very few of his local acquaintances back in London shared a similar fondness as he did, which resulted in many lonely nights, whereafter no more than several shots of whiskey (as tipsy as Arthur may be), he had turned to conversing with an opened bottle of wine, such as he seemed like a mentally ill gentleman in a crowded pub.

He never had many chances to drink with his closest friends, those of whom were mostly seated in the UN's Board of Representatives.

Government officials, he pondered. The hefty load of work we receive by itself, added to disclosure of confidential information, and a certain few members'—he clicked his tongue at the thought of Francis Bonnefoy—incompetence of such requirements, all of those limiting our freedom. Not to mention politics. It often came as an intimidating barrier between his fellows, and when one's superiors had to keep up an everlasting grudge (on a national level, no less), Arthur also had to plaster an uneasy facade to his familiars, and unfortunately, so had everyone else. Precisely why such an occasion musn't be missed.

And so, to Alfred's offer he answered, "Yes, obviously."

"That would certainly be wonderful, Alfred," Ivan replied, right after Arthur gave his, as if he had been waiting all along for a socially adequate time to deliver his.

"Cool," Alfred grinned, and leaned towards the Englishman. "I'll beep the location to the group, be there at seven."

Arthur scoffed at Alfred, namely at his improper use of the word 'beep'. "Alright."

"Is that so?" The Russian representative gave a ready smile, one that despite his efforts to suppress into a well-meaning compliment, made Alfred shudder nonetheless. "Then, I presume I shall also be joining you this evening."

"Cool, big chief." Alfred inhaled sharply as he uttered those words. "Anyways, Arthur, you up- " It was then that the lift gave out a sharp 'ding', the doors slid open, and Mr. Braginsky excused himself with a wave of his hand. Of course, the pair followed suit by a few moments, but unlike Mr. Braginsky, who trodded in lengthy steps to the East Longue, presumably to expect his boss; they stumbled down to the General Assembly, where gathered an assembly of unreserved smiles and familiar faces in the Lobby East.

It was too strange to see everyone with neither unequivocal unrest nor social tensions, as Arthur wandered into the lobby, was greeted with several waves-of-the-hand and friendly glances, to which he returned them back in the manner they were given. Alfred had went off to cut into a conversation of a pair of Asian representatives, whom he recognised immediately as Yao Wang and Kiku Honda, Chinese and Japanese officials respectively, to whom the exuberant American, and perhaps himself, were quite close friends with.

Arthur stared wistfully to his ever-so-extroverted companion, who could jump to one conversation to another, all while weaving his words seamlessly into the dialogues the other participants produced—however, often in a hasty and at times, inconsiderate manner, for if he was lighthearted and strikingly handsome (as many of his female acquaintances had remarked), he was also absolutely dreadful at reading the circumstances of an exchange-of-words. He was, at the moment, utterly obnoxious.

Arthur did not recall much of what happened shortly after. He talked to the Baltic States' reps for a while, joked on how Estonia would do much better if actively cooperating with Russia, which in fact, _they_ _did not take as a joke. _Just a few moments after, Arthur jerked back as he heard a defeaning ring, followed with a chortle, distinctively Alfred's.

"You're welcome," Yao Wang sniggered, flinched back as he felt a loud chime, accompanied by a strong rattling of the contents of his pockets. Raising his hand, as to excuse himself, Mr. Wang had flipped his cell open, leaned back into a bench and yawned "您好。(nīn hao/ Hello (polite form))" into his phone.

Between the rapid exchange of words and the lengthy strings of Chinese, Alfred had already given up on trying to make out what the conversation was about, and thus, resorted to pulling the poor man over, by the neck, to which Arthur kept a straight face, other than the sudden thought of how horrendous Alfred would be as a boyfriend, as he seemingly had no word for 'subtlety'. Perhaps he wanted to inquire about those newest game releases—Kiku knew a surprising, even borderline illegal amount of leaked info for those. Dear Lord, did he just slap Toris' back while he was sipping coffee?

"Have some decency, would you!" Arthur yelled.

"YOU'RE NOT MY DAD, ARTHUR!"

"Clearly not anymore, YOU UNGRATEFUL GIT!"

Alfred raised up his left hand, his fingers forming the universal symbol of 'screw you', and sauntered away behind the glass panels.

Well. He slipped his brown folders into his case, and hummed contemplatively. I raised him, Arthur's self-conscience had reminded himself, so very bitterly.

**5th October 2018, 7.00 PM, *Location cannot be displayed: error 404, Queens, NYC, USA**

Seven o'clock was the appointed time. Awfully early, Arthur thought. And yet, when he finally arrived, chaos had already run rampant.

"TWO FOR MY _AMI_ HERE!" A call reverberated across the pub, one that was tinged in a distinctive French accent—definitely Francis, and followed with a throw of baskets overstuffed with scarlet wings to the man's table. Not the typical pub menu, Arthur thought, until he had realised that this—in fact, was not a pub.

"This is a bar, Alfred," Arthur frowned disapprovingly.

"Ey, my man, Arthur," Alfred had apparently downed three cans of sprite and under his 'second guardian''s consent—Francis, if anyone was wondering—had tried a shot of bourbon, and had become only a slight bit tipsy. But not well enough for Arthur to gouge out all the humiliating confidentials out of his arse, he noted. Just like he had done a few months back, only that Arthur had been completely annihilated when Alfred had just started feeling tipsy (that one of the few times where Arthur allowed Alfred to have some alcohol, as it was to his advantage, or so he thought), so perhaps he had spilled more, in fact, much more beans than Alfred had that chaotic evening. Tapping anxiously as to break the silence, he mumbled. "Can we talk shit about Ivan now?"

"Haha, non." Francis sniggered. "Would it not be best to save the heaviest sins for last? I propose Ludwig."

"That's not very fun." Yao Wang muttered.

"Yeah, seriously? Bitch, he's like the ONLY responsible adult here," Alfred slurred on, peering at the half-empty can of coke, and eyed the stone-faced German, who then let out a sigh of displeasure.

"As prideful as this may make me sound," Ludwig mumbled exasperatedly, wiped the beer foam from his lips, then continued, "Francis clearly has been neglecting as his duties as an EU official, and Arthur," he glared intently at both men, "Was zur Hölle was Brexit?"

"Dear God, I wasn't an EU official, even back then." Arthur sipped from the glass, drowsier by every drop of scotch.

"Ok dude, you're literally the entire Great Britain itself," Alfred pointed out.

"And YOU'RE literally the entire United States of America himself," Arthur snapped. "Everyone's been gobsmacked that Britain's leaving the EU—but the Americans themselves have quite a lineup of horrid candidates to lead the so-called global superpower!"

A few groans could be heard from their booth, and Alfred sunk into the couch, shifted uneasily, as this was a matter he dreaded on being brought up. "Crap," Alfred downed the frothy cola in quick gulps, and groaned.

Arthur's expression softened to a smile. "This is what—your forty-seventh president? It'll be over before you know it."

"Yes, mon ami," Francis said, "For once I shall agree with Angleterre here."

This drew some reassuring pat-on-the-backs to Alfred, who was in fact, actually feeling tired now, and couldn't give two fucks about whats-his-name anymore. At this point, Arthur could make out the reddish hues on some of his companion's faces, a delightful observation, because he was quite sober enough to avoid spouting out nonsense while eavesdropping on the mixed chatter from the table.

Yes, very interesting chatter indeed. Mind you, we do—and say some very, well, questionable things when alcohol's got the better of us. As he thought so, Arthur pressed his palms against the textured mahogany, and peered at Ivan, who despite all odds contained in that cursed bottle of absinthe, sat as usual, with that unsettling grin on his face. Across him was Kiku, whose expression showed contentment instead of his usual stoic complexion.

In fact, he had made a mental note of the degree of amusement each of his friends would provide if they were tipsy, drunk, or absolutely wasted. And Kiku, he'd spout out things he'd never dare say had he been sober. Throw caution to the wind, that kind of stuff.

Delightful.

"Ivan," Kiku muttered. "Remember when I did not get any sleep for six nights straight because you were getting friendly with Ludwig and my Prime Ministers changed every two weeks and I was thisss close to harpooning you—"

Ivan turned to face the man, and flashed an unnerving smile. "When was that exactly?"

"I tried to harpoon you from the ceiling."

"Oh." Ivan nodded thoughtfully. "That time. It was fun, wasn't it?"

"Dude." Alfred, who happened to be eavesdropping, glanced at Ivan, with that shit-eating two-sided grin on his face. "You're like the incarnation of Satan himself."

Arthur may not have realised it, but he agreed silently.

"Don't be so harsh, Alfred. We had our times, but," Feliciano chided. "Ivan's quite nice—even considerate, to some extent."

Ludwig swore he saw Ivan grin just a bit, when Feli turned to him.

"Oh yes, Ludwig." he twirled at his curl playfully as he nudged the man. "When's the next meeting at?"

"Er, Hamburg."

"HAMBURG?" Alfred, who had laid his head on the table until just now, slammed his palms and exclaimed vigorously, whispered a soft 'sorry' to those in vicinity, and continued as if someone had shoved a crap ton of sugar into his system. "DUDE, I'VE NEVER BEEN THERE!"

"It's...a very nice place?" Ludwig muttered confusedly.

"Wait, when is it?" Yao Wang chided in.

"Um, hold on," The German flipped through his documents aggressively, until he pulled a tinted sheet out, one that said, "Twentieth April."

"Are you shitting me."

"Oh mon Dieu." Having heard the date, the Frenchman scoffed, "I can't believe them."

First story, was recently into a crap ton of Hetalia angst, so hey, why not. It should be noted that most of the italics indicate speech in languages other than English. In this case, Chinese.

Do try and feedback, not very confident of this work myself, so again, that would be greatly appreciated.


End file.
